And the Orange was the Earth on Fire

   Madge was an old woman with not much left to give this world.  She was 77, but it felt like, in the past decade, death had—as they say—knocked at her door once or twice.  Ever since her daughter moved her into Cupid’s Arrow Nursing Home, Madge felt dead to the world, anyway. Linda hadn't visited in six months. She hadn't called in three.

Madge still enjoyed her evenings with a bottle of port.  She had always been a drinker, but ever since moving to Cupid’s, it had become almost a nightly habit.  She’d sit in front of the television watching cooking programs with her blue bottles of port. It seemed like Steve Harvey and Drew Carrey were the only friends she had in this place, in this world.

            Sometimes she would bring the little blue bottles to BINGO, taking nips out of her purse when the workers weren’t looking.  Madge never filled out her BINGO board, but it was fun to watch the others get upset when they lost.  They were all losers.

            “I HAVE BINGO! I HAVE BINGO!” one woman screamed

            “SHE’S AN OLD, DEMENTED LIAR!” a man chimed in. “CHECK HER BOARD!”

            Madge took a nip and cackled.

            “I HAVE BINGO!” the woman continued. “GIVE ME MY PRIZE, NOW!”

            “NURSE,” the man said. “IF YOU DON’T CHECK HER BOARD, I WILL PULL THE EYE-VEE RIGHT OUT MY ARM!”

            “YEAH,” madge joined, “CHECK HER BOARD, OR I’LL HOLD MY BREATH TILL I DIE!”

            The nurse walked over and checked the woman’s board.  She had BINGO.

            One morning, Madge decided to take one of her walks down to the beach. Cupid’s was well within walking distance of the shoreline, even for the old and decrepit that inhabited it. Before she left, she was stopped by Ms. Nicole, a young, bubbly blonde that was newly appointed the afternoon shifts.

            “Afternoon, miss Madge,” the blonde said. Her voice seemed to bounce off Madge’s face.  “Where are you going on this fine day?”

            Nicole had a slight southern accent that was slightly annoying.  She meant no harm, probably had moved to LA to try and become an actress; she had mountainous breasts that swelled under the white, collared shirt workers at Cupid’s were forced to wear.  Now she was stuck here looking after Madge and the rest of the almost-dead. It was hard to fault her for it, but someone must be faulted. 

            “Oh, just down to the beach,” Madge said.  She shifted her purse to hide the port.  “It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

            “Absolutely!” the words ping-ponged against Madge’s nose.  “Have you eaten breakfast today, miss Madge?”

            “Oh, I had some things—little bits of cake from last night, and some tea.”

            Nicole frowned, then handed Madge an orange. “That’s no breakfast!  Here, take this—for the road.”  

            Madge took the orange, placed it in her pocket, and walked down to the beach. 

            When Madge took these walks, she first liked to sit in the grass on the cliffs that looked over the sand, pulling from her bottles of port, writing letters to her dead mother. On this day, she wrote:

            Dear Mom:

            I’m at the beach again. Remember when I was a kid and we used to ride our bikes here, until we couldn’t pedal thru the sand any longer? You used to go out in front and sweat, sweat, sweat.  At first I found it gross, but I learned to love you for being out in front and protecting me.  The other day, I saw two rabbits making love behind some high grass. They stopped and hopped over to me, looked into my eyes. I swear, mom, when I saw those eyes, gleaming in this always-hot sun, everything seemed to be okay for a moment. It took me away from this dull, terrible life that I’m forced to live…

            Madge’s letter was halted at the sound of five young girls riding their bikes through the parking lot.  They stopped a few yards away.

            “Hey old lady,” one of them screamed. Madge looked up. “What the HELL are you DOING?”

            Madge put her notebook, her lost youth, down in the grass. For some reason, she felt ashamed. 

            “Stop it, Marisa,” one of the other girls said.  

            “Can you hear me, old lady?” Marisa said. Her long, tan legs were planted to the ground, holding her and the pink bike steady. “I said, what the HELL are you doing?”

            “I’m just writing. . .” Madge answered. 

            “Marisa, STOP.”

            “Hey old lady,” Marisa continued, “can you still get WET? When’s the last time you got some DICK? I’d rather DIE than have my pussy all shriveled up like yours must be. Don’t you want to just DIE?”

            “I still have some good to give this world,” Madge said, glancing at the notebook. 

            “Whatever, lady.” Marisa said. And the girls rode off, down toward the sand—silent at first, then all laughing.

            …but it always comes back around.  I miss you, mom.  

                                                                        love always,

                                                                                    madge.

            Madge put the notebook down again and pulled the orange out of her pocket. The sphere was bright against her tan hands, as if the earth was on fire, sitting in her palms. She felt the smooth, unwrinkled skin of ripe fruit and thought of Nicole back at Cupid’s, and the young girls on the bikes, and the young women her dead husband used to gawk at when they went to the mall.  Madge had been old and ugly for so long, it was hard to remember if there was a time she was ever beautiful.  She threw her notebook over the cliff, then the orange. She watched the orange bounce down into the sand. Bounce . . . bounce . . . bounce . . . splat.

            When Madge got back to Cupid’s, Nicole was just leaving.

            “Oooooh miss Madge! How was your little day-trip?”

            “It was wonderful,” Madge said.  “Thank you so much for the orange. It was just what I needed.”

            Nicole smiled and swayed out the door. Maybe she’d become an actress. If not, there was always Cupid’s. 

            Walking into her bedroom, Madge closed the door and crumbled onto the bed. She held the blue bottle to her chest, sitting up to take swigs periodically with her sadness. The liquid made her feel warm and light. She kept her eyes closed for hours, slowly drifting into what she could only hope was death.